


The Wandering Stars (are children who don't know arithmetic)

by AwayLaughing



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Multi, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwayLaughing/pseuds/AwayLaughing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canada finds himself on France's stoop with nowhere to go when Spain finds him, sparking a strange sort of understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wandering Stars (are children who don't know arithmetic)

Title: the wandering stars are children who don't know arithmetic.  
Summary: Canada finds himself on France's stoop with nowhere to go when Spain finds him, sparking a strange sort of understanding.  
Warnings: Schmoop and crackpairings.  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Not mine, all characters belong to various other people.  
Author's Note: This was posted way long ago on the meme, and so I've not much to say other then thank you to the Spanish anon who helped edit my Spanish. I don't speak a word of the language sadly, so the help is very appreciated.

xXxXx

Matthew knocks on Francis' door, dread settling in his stomach as the length of time the door goes unanswered gets longer. Francis doesn't forget, not usually, so Matthew knocks again, teeth sinking into his bottom lip nervously.

Francis still doesn't answer.

Matthew swears, his head colliding with the white painted wood, his bag falling from his hand. Francis forgot this time, and Matthew resists the urge to groan. He's not heartbroken, not exactly, but the agitation which comes with this new development makes his throat tighten and his fingers go a little numb. 

Francis, he knows, probably didn't forget him in the way most people do, he's most likely been distracted, but it's an inconvenience anyway. He doesn't have the money for a hotel, the recession may be well under control, but he manages his money tightly just in case and he hadn't thought to bring hotel money. With a groan he turns around, sliding down the door, pulling his suitcase on top of him and closing his eyes.

He'll just wait for Francis.

xXxXx

Matthew's eyes fly open as a shadow covers him, and he resists the urge to shout when he sees two confused, or possibly concerned, green eyes peering down at him.

“¿Estados Unidos?” The green eyes ask and Matthew blinks at the realization that he is nose to nose with this person. 

“Um,” he says in reply and the green eyes widen a little, the owner still not pulling away.

“¿Estás bien?” the concerned nation, who Matthew is now able to positively identify as Spain, finally pulls away and crouches down, head cocked a little. “¿Estados Unidos?” he asks again and Matthew finally gets his bearings enough to try and correct him.

“Um, Mr. Spain,” he mutters, focusing on a point just over his shoulder, “I'm not Al- I mean I'm not the US and I don't speak Spanish, or at least not very well.”

Spain's eyebrows furrow, and Matthew sighs, trying not to pout at the older nation. “I'm uh, Canada,” he tells him, and he's a little shocked at the immediate recognition in his eyes.

“Oh, Canada I am sorry,” he chuckles, standing and, without hesitation, grabbing Matthew's bag. “Francis is at Inglaterra's,” he tells the blond nation, “so you can come with me.” And, as if it never even occurred to him that Matthew may not want to come with him, he starts down the garden path.

xXxXx

Spain is a very nice nation, Matthew has to give him that, but the drive to his house is awkward. Matthew sits in the passengers seat, back ram rod straight, trying not to fiddle with the radio. Next to him Spain is humming, his voice low and warm and Matthew sort of likes it. It isn't like when Alfred hums, always just slightly off key, and is much better than his own singing.

They sit in silence for no more than maybe twenty minutes before Matthew must fall asleep because the next time he looks out the window it's dark and the road they're on is a winding mess.

“I am currently staying just outside of Ea,” the Spaniard tells him, looking away from the winding road and flashing him a grin, “we just passed Ispater so it will only be another six minutes or so.” Matthew nods, mind racing.

“Er, why were you in Bayonne?” the minute he says it he wishes he hadn't, because it's rude and the nation has just welcomed him into his home.

Spain, however, doesn't seem bothered as he lets out a laugh, “ah, Francis asked me to water his roses, if he didn't get rain that is, and it was such a dry week I thought, Antonio, two hours is not such a bad drive, so I went down.” He shifts, looking at Matthew again and the northern nation bites his lip to stop from pleading with him to not take his eyes off the road for the love of God. “He didn't mention you though,” the dark haired man says, “why were you there?”

Matthew gives a sheepish chuckle before turning to look out the window, watching trees and protrusions of black shale whip past. “He invited me over a month ago and I forgot to double check before leaving, stupid mistake really,” he says, eyes trying to focus on one aspect of the scenery despite the complete futility of the task. As such, Matthew doesn't see the frown that slips momentarily onto Spain's face before he turns back toward the wheel.

“That is not so much a stupid mistake,” he chides lightly, “Francis is... when Inglaterra wants to see him he forgets about other things,” he smiles reassuringly, “but that is okay, now you and I can speak some, we do not do that often.”

Matthew makes a little noise of agreement and almost shouts when the car turns suddenly up a long drive way. “We don't talk much,” he agrees, eyes widening as the trees stop suddenly to reveal acres of what look like, at least to Matthew, potatoes and beyond that some form of orchard.

The house itself is something else, a sprawling bungalow type thing with bits and pieces from different architectural eras. Matthew is in awe. “Your house looks lovely,” he tells Spain as they step out of the vehicle, and Spain gives him a broad grin, popping the trunk and pulling Matthew's bag out of it.

“Gracias Canada,” he says happily, opening the apparently unlocked door, “I hope you continue to think so.” Matthew follows him into the open concept layout, feeling like a fish out of water.

xXxXx

Antonio wakes to sunlight in his eyes and he sits up, frowning as he hears something, or someone, in the kitchen. Still tired and blinking he shuffles into the kitchen, leaning against the doorway as he spots Canada. The blond nation is perched on the counter, tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he grabs at the container of cocoa Antonio keeps up there.

“Need help?” he offers, only to startle the other man. Canada lets out a squawk and topples backwards, landing with a painful 'oomph' on the wooden floor. “¡Lo siento!” the brunet cries, darting forward to help him up, “are you okay Canada?” Blue eyes blink up at him and Antonio feels his mouth curve up at the dazed look on the pale face.

“Er,” he replies, sitting up slowly, and Antonio chuckles at the response.

“Bien,” the Spaniard tells him, pulling him up, both of them wincing as the slighter man's spine cracks. “Take a seat,” he tells the northern nation, “why did you want the cocoa?”

“I uh, I wanted to make some hot chocolate,” he admits, blushing a little. Antonio chuckles again, amused at the sheepish way the younger nation admits to a completely normal craving.

“Ah,” he says, still smiling and now stretching to reach the small tin, “buena idea, I think I will have some chocolate a la taza as well,” he tells the younger, watching him out of the corner of his eye as he pulls his knees up to his chest. Antonio had been surprised to see the blond nation at Francis', and a little disappointed in his friend for forgetting about a previous engagement but he is nonetheless happy for the company. “When was the last time you came to Spain?” he asks the younger, unable to conjure any memory of having the other on his home soil.

“Ah, yes,” the Canadian says, looking a little distracted, “I was here for a meeting in Madrid a while ago,” he tells the older nation, still looking out the window.

Antonio grins at that, watching the hot chocolate thicken, “well I am glad!” He enthuses, grabbing two mugs, “I'm afraid that while still beautiful this area does not have that same feel people expect when they come to my home.”

The Spanish nation finally pours, or rather part pours part scoops, the hot cocoa and turns toward the table. Setting the mugs down he sits across from Canada, studying the young face until the northern nation starts to speak, “actually,” he almost whispers, giving Antonio a tiny smile, “I'm not very good at dealing with overly warm weather.” Antonio chuckles at this, nodding. 

“Fair enough,” he muses aloud, taking a sip of his drink, “I do not do well in cold weather, even with my mountains and my northern coasts,” he gives a sunny smile as Canada's mouth twitches, “I do not think I would like to visit your tundra.”

Canada finally laughs, picking up his drink and smelling it appreciatively, “in the summer the tundra is sort of warm,” he tells him, blushing a little, “I mean...it reaches ten,” he says and it takes Antonio a moment to realize he's joking.

XxxXx

As they wash the dishes, Spain drying them manually because he knows where they go, Spain chatters mindlessly about this and that, about the incoming crop and about his vacation in Greece a while ago and about how much he likes having company over. Canada listens politely, making small, soft remarks as they work away, and once they're done Spain stands there beaming at him, and Canada can't help but shift nervously under the stare.

“Is there something you would like to do today?” Spain asks him after a beat, and Canada blinks before shaking his head.

“No, I, Francis and I didn't have any plans, and you weren't expecting me and I'd,” he flushes, cutting off his own rambling. “I'd really hate to inconvenience you in any way at all.”

Spain frowns, briefly, so briefly in fact that Canada thinks he's imagined it, before another sunny smile is painted across his tanned face. “Then we will go to Ea, it is very pretty and I think you will enjoy it. I do not get many visitors to my north you see.”

Canada nods, dazed and allows himself to be directed back to his room, nodding when Spain tells him to clean up and get dressed. He doesn't particularly want to get in the car with Spain again, but it can't be worse than what he'd been told about the North Italy.

Ea is small, very small actually, but it is beautiful, especially in the early morning light. The houses are white, facing the water that runs through the centre, and all around is forest and ocean and sky and Canada is in love, he thinks. Spain talks animatedly about Ea, it's the largest town in the area, and when he mentions that they're in Basque country Canada comes out of his half meditative state to look at the older man.

“Is Mr. Basque around?” Canada asked. He knew the other nation existed, France often spoke of him, but he'd never actually met the older man.

“Ah no,” Spain says easily, gesturing to the west, “he is in Vitoria-Gasteiz,” he gives a wane smile to Canada, “he does not like me much.”

Canada nods, thinking of the Inuit and the various Iroquois and the Mi'kmaq and so many other. “I understand,” he says softly, looking away from Spain to study the forests once more. Spain blinks at him, looking oddly pensive, before giving another, new smile, one Canada has never seen before.

“You do,” Spain agrees and they walk down the calm streets of Ea for a while before they reach the end of the town, the road stopping suddenly at the small bay. Canada is almost immediately off the path, scrambling down to the sandy stretch of coast, and Spain lets out a bark of laughter at the way the boy, usually so calm, so shy, bursts into life in the wild. By the time Spain joins Canada, the other has his shoes off, smiling as he wiggles his toes in the sand.

“This is really a beautiful area,” the boy tells him as they head down the beach, “very peaceful.”

“Muchísimas gracias,” Spain says, all sunshine smiles again, “I am beginning to think you are not so much your people, are you?” Canada gives him a look, obviously confused.

“I'm not sure what you ah, I mean, er,” he pauses, obviously thinking, “I'm people.” He says finally, not sounding very confident.

“Perdóname,” the other says, chuckling at the other's flustered response. “I do not mean to say you do not have your people in you,” he shrugs easily, “I think you are just more your lands yes? More your mountains than your cities? More your lakes than your politicians?”

Canada considers this, thinking hard, before nodding slowly. “I suppose so,” he says, looking bashful, “is that,” he bites his lip, “is that bad?” Spain chuckles again, ruffling the blond hair.

“No no. ¡Para nada! para nada mi osito,” Spain assures him, patting his shoulder and Canada blinks at what he recognizes as an endearment, though not one he's heard before.

“Osito?” he queries, and Spain laughs, hands still on his shoulder and refuses to clarify. 

xXxXx

“Would you like help with supper?” Canada asks, watching from the table as Spain collects various vegetables. Spain looks at him, putting down potatoes and tomatoes and nods.

“Sí,” he tells the other, “that would be lovely. Could you peel the potatoes and chop them into,” he pauses, thinking, “one half inch slices, and then seed and chop the tomatoes?” Canada nods, jumping up, washing off his hands.

“Four of each?” he confirms, and Spain nods, setting the oven to 204°C, placing a pan with olive oil in it before turning to the other small pile of produce next to Canada, pulling out an onion and expertly chopping it. They work in silence, Spain humming something as he worked, Canada thinking about his childhood habit of trying to help France cook, despite being too short to reach the counter.

“You are smiling osito,” Spain observes as he stirs the contents of the pan, now tomatoes, garlic and some strange green nuts Canada isn't familiar with. “May I ask why?”

Canada blushes a bit, fiddling with the hem of his tee shirt. “I was just thinking about cooking with Francis,” he tells the other, “I was always too short to reach the counter or table, so he'd pick me up while I stirred.” Spain smiles, again, green eyes shining.

“Lovino used to help as long as tomatoes were involved, if not I was out of luck,” he chuckles at the memory and Canada gives a tiny smile, he doesn't know either of the Italies very well. “Could you layer the potatoes on the bottom of the cazuela?” he asks lightly, shifting the topic, only for Canada to give him a blank stare. “It's just above your head in the cupboard, terracotta.” Canada nods, a blush working past his cheeks to his ears as he stands on his tip toes and pulls the heavy dish down. Spain turns of the stove, moving the saucer from the heat, and watches as Canada places the potatoes, expression focused. “Gracias osito,” Spain says, bringing the sauce pan over to scoop the tomato based contents over the potatoes, “we will put this in the oven to bake and then I will finish up, you go watch the television or something.”

Canada nods again, washing his hands before all but bolting out of the room. Spain listens to the patter of sock feet on wood floors until he hears the gentle closing of the door before he picks up his phone, pressing his third speed dial.

_“Âllo?”_ comes a voice after a few moments.

_“Hola Francis,”_ he greets, _“you've forgotten something, old friend.”_

xXxXx

Canada sits on the couch staring out into the night sky, not caring that Spain has been in bed for hours now, or that he too should be in bed. This vacation has been, to put it mildly, strange. Before this, he could have counted on on hand the number of times Spain had ever spoken to him, and now he was staying with the older nation, receiving nicknames and having his hair ruffled.

Not that he minds, really. He's a young country, he knows this, and even his brother, who is, he thinks, actually younger than him, treats him, not as a child, but as somebody younger. He's used to it, but he isn't used to the attentiveness. Spain always seems to be around, making little comments and giving bright smiles, remarking on this or that and happily answering anything Canada asks him. Most people grow bored of him and forget after a while.

"¿No puedes dormir?" comes from behind him, and Canada jumps, staring at Spain from over the couch. “Can't sleep?” Spain asks again, leaning sleepily against the wall, dressed only in his boxers.

“I uh,” Canada tries, flustered, “weren't you in bed?”

“Yes,” Spain says simply, walking over and sitting down at the end opposite Canada, “you're thinking woke me.”

Canada's eyes widen, and immediately apologies start to pour from his mouth, rapidly, catching Spain off guard. “I'm so sorry, really I didn't mean to at all, oh, oh dear, I um, I , I'll try to be quieter really I didn't realize I was being loud oh God I am so sor-”

“Canada, Canada,” Spain says, laughter in his voice, “I was joking osito, do not worry so much.” Canada blushes again, face skipping pink entirely to go to red, Spain smiles at him, shaking his head a little. “I got up for water, now, tell me, is something the matter with your bed?”

Canada eyes widen again, and he shakes his head vigorously. “Non, no,” he says, slipping briefly into his French, “I'm just, not tired, I guess.” He looks away from Spain when he says that, and Spain tilts his head to the side. The poor boy is a miserable liar.

“Something keeping you awake?” he prompts, shifting closer to the red faced boy, and Canada, after a moment, gives a tiny nod.

“I just, I,” Canada is whispering now, still not looking at Spain, “you've been really nice to me.” He settles on that, waiting with baited breath for Spain to respond.

“Osito,” Spain says softly, that now familiar tinge of laughter still there, “you are very easy to be nice to.” Canada says nothing at that, still looking away, and Spain stands, grabbing one surprisingly cool hand, tugging the startled boy up. “Go to sleep,” he tells the other firmly, “we have things to do tomorrow.” Canada obeys, quietly walking to his room, and Spain waits until he hears the door close to go get some water, and then returns to his bed.

xXxXx

Spain wakes the next morning to silence, something not in and of itself a bad thing. He dresses quickly, doing little more than throwing on a shirt as coverage before making his way to the kitchen. It is empty, and Spain pauses, sticking his head out the window before heading back to the room he'd put Canada in.

The northern country is curled up in his bed, hair strewn on his pillow, the covers kicked off to the very foot of the bed, knees almost touching his chest. Spain stands in the doorway, admiring the way the sun paints the others pale skin gold, chuckling as he gets close enough to notice the way the boy drools slightly.

“Osito,” he coos lightly, shaking one smooth shoulder, “despierta osito, the sun is up and wishes to see you.” Canada shifts, giving a tiny little noise before one eye opens to land on Spain.

“Did I sleep in?” he slurs slightly, sitting up. Spain shakes his head, now perched on the edge of the bed, palms on the mattress.

“No osito,” Spain says easily, “you did not. I did not know your eyes were violet.” Canada blinks at the sudden change in topic before a pink blush appears on his cheeks and ears.

“Come dormilón,” Spain says standing, “get dressed and I will make breakfast, than we will garden!” With that he disappears, leaving Canada on the bed, arms crossed self consciously.

In the kitchen, the Mediterranean country turns on his little portable radio, singing along easily to the woman who is playing.

“C'est belle,” comes a soft voice from behind him, and Spain turns to see Canada sitting at the table, knees tugged to his chest. “What song is it?”

“Rosa de la Paz by Amaral,” Spain says immediately, and Canada nods, obviously filing that away for later. “You do not mind gardening, do you? I have no problem ferrying you around osito but I really did come up here to care for the plants.”

“No no,” Canada says quickly, “I don't want to be any trouble, you didn't even have to bring me here, Francis would have,” he pauses, looking uneasy, “he'd have remembered soon.”

“Of course osito,” Spain agrees, pouring the batter he's been stirring into several cupcake tins. “We can talk while the magdalenas bake, then we will eat!” Canada smiles at that, resting his head on his knees to look up at Spain, following the older man with his eyes until the other sits down. “What plans did you and Francis have?” Spain asks, trying to find out what the blond country is interested in.

“Um,” Canada says, shifting to get more comfortable, “shopping probably, though I don't like that much, I like what we've been doing,” he adds, looking shy, “I'd love to help you garden.” Spain smiles at that, the bright white splitting his face.

“I am glad,” he says sincerely, “I enjoy your company, you are very pleasant.” Canada blushes more at the compliment, and Spain resists to the urge to pat his head and tell him how cute he was. “And no one ever wants to help me garden!” he adds.

“Not even Romano?” Canada says, looking interested, “I thought you were close?” Spain's smile dims a bit at that, and Canada immediately seems to pull into himself, as if backing away from that proverbial line in the sand. “Spain I'm so-”

“No no osito,” Spain says, looking thoughtful. “We were close once,” he admits, “and we still get along very well, but he is also very close with Belgium, yes?” he prompts, and Canada nods warily, “and I am not one to get in the way of burgeoning love.” Canada frowns at that, obviously thinking of something, before he stands, biting his lip nervously. Spain watches the other come to his side of the table before standing next to him, looking torn. “Osito?” he asks, wondering what the other is doing, only to find a pair of pale arms thrown around his neck.

“I'm sorry Spain,” the northern country murmurs into the tan neck, “I'm sorry.” Spain hugs the other back, smelling the scent of pine and mountain air and salt water on the other.

“It is okay osito,” he tells the other gently, “sometimes fate just works out like that.” Canada nods, face still in his neck, taking another moment to pull away.

“'S just not fair,” he mutters, looking down and sounding for the all the world like a wounded child. Spain nods, this time giving in and patting his head as he gets up to check on breakfast.

“I know,” he tells the other soothingly. “I know.” 

Much like Spain had expected, Canada turns out to be a very competent gardener, possibly more so than Spain himself. The two work well together, Canada seemingly able to recognize what is a weed and what is not, despite differences in plant life on their respective continents.

They had started right after breakfast, hoping to get as much done as possible before the sun became too hot and by noon they've made excellent headway, their pile of weeds almost triple what Spain would usually have done after five or so hours. Conversation had waxed and waned, and when the two weren't too far apart to properly communicate or too busy, they had discussed anything and everything from what to have for supper to whether or not they had Christmas plans for later in the year. 

It was during a lull in the conversation that Spain glances up at the sky, and then sighs, standing and brushing off his knees, catching Canada's attention. “Spain?” he asks, and Spain points upwards, smiling. Canada follows his finger, laughing slightly when he sees what Spain is pointing out. “Rain, just our luck eh?” he queries, tugging out one last stem of lambsquarters and standing.

“Si,” Spain says wistfully, heading back toward the house, “the sky changes so quickly, no?”

“Hmm,” Canada replies, obviously not paying much attention, “yet she always stays the same,” he mused, and Spain cocked his head to the side.

“The same?” Spain queried and Canada chuckled, blushing prettily.

“Well she's always Skywoman,” he says simply and Spain gives him a confused smile in return. “She's from the Ojibwa creation story.”

“Oh?” Spain asks, “how does it go?” as he asks this they reach his back door, and he hold it open for the other nation, leading him into the kitchen where they sit at the table.

“Well,” Canada says, “in the beginning,” he giggles at that before continuing. “In the beginning Kitchi-Manitou dreamed the universe into creation. After doing this, he disappeared for some time. Upon his arrival, he found Earth Mother and her creatures to be well and good, but he realized that something was missing, and so he decided that the Earth needed dreams like himself. To do this he needed to pass on his own essence, spirit so to speak, and to do that,” Canada gave him a large grin, “he needed a woman.”

Spain chuckles at that, seeing Francis in that grin and hearing it in the way he says it. “Anyway,” Canada continues, “Kitchi Manitou asked Skywoman to help him out, and she agreed to care for and nurture this new being. They did what needed to be done, and,” Canada sighs here, “like men everywhere he ran off before she was awake again. She was probably miffed, but that's not in the legend, and she went down to Earth, she lived on the moon before, forgot to mention that,” smiling sheepishly and scratching at his nose he continues. “So, she went down to the Earth and started to prepare for this new creature. As she made her preparations animals came to speak to her, asking what she was doing. She told them and the animals were excited, and the gossip spread like wild fire,” Canada pauses, considering this, “or like gossip among nations.” Spain laughs at that, noting the gentle click of his front door, though the blond nation doesn't seem to notice it.

“Continue,” he requests, and Canada blushes a little, but complies

“So, pretty much everyone was excited about this in a 'yeah new neighbours way', except the Water Manitous. They were jealous of this new creature, knowing that any child of Kitchi Manitou's would be very powerful. So, to stop this from happening they flooded the whole world, destroying Skywoman's camp, but she stayed calm and asked for help. The first being to help her out was the great turtle who came up and let her rest on his back next,” he says, smiling softly, “came the loon, the beaver and the muskrat.”

Spain smiles at the boys excitement, noting the movement by the door, though he doesn't turn to greet the person and Canada is still unaware. “She decided she needed to re-create the world, so she asked the loon and the beaver to get her some clay. All day the two tried, until they were exhausted. Having watched all day, the muskrat decided it was his turn to try, despite the fact the muskrats can't dive very deep at all. Anyway, he dove down, and Skywoman and her friends waited all evening and all night. The muskrat did not come back. It wasn't until the sun was rising that Skywoman saw something floating in the water, and as it approached she saw that it was the muskrat, dead. However,” Canada gives him a meaningful look, pulling his legs up so he is sitting cross legged. “However he had the soil she needed in his paw, and so to thank him Skywoman breathed life back into him, which is why we still have muskrats.”

Spain makes a small noise at that and Canada looks at him expectantly. “I don't have muskrats,” he says solemnly and Canada giggles before continuing.

“So, Skywoman spread the soil all over the turtle's shell, creating new land, which was then known as Turtle Island. Eventually she gave birth and Kitchi Manitou showed up, and as thanks for all she did gave her the name of the Great Mother, mother of the Good Beings.” Sensing that the story is over Spain smiles, finally looking at the door way.

France is there, leaning and watching Canada quietly, not saying anything. Canada doesn't notice Spain's gaze has drifted and reverts back to his usual shyness, playing with the hem of his pants, waiting for a response.

“I never heard that story.” Francis is the one to break the silence and Canada's blue-purple eyes widened in shock, almost tumbling from his seat to turn and look at his former colonizer. Spain watches Canada watching Francis and stands, ready to leave.

“I should shower,” he says, and Canada gives him a look, but Spain ducks the corner, grin staying in place. As he strips down the smile melts off and he frowns a bit, turning the shower to the right heat. “Dios mío,” he murmured sliding in under the water, “España, tú estas tonto.” 

xXxXx

When he gets out of the shower, maybe half an hour later, the house is silent. Walking past his guest rooms he sees the lights are off, and it is only an irrational fear which of Canada's possible absence which stops Spain from opening the door.

As it turns out, it is, but only because Canada is on the couch. “Where's Francis?” Spain asks, blinking at the boy curled up on his couch, Don Quixote in hand.

“Well,” Canada looks at that clock, “probably near Ispater.” Spain thinks about that for a moment, calculating before frowning. “He left five minutes ago,” Canada says, noting the puzzled expression.

“Ah,” Spain says, sitting down across from the blond, noticing the freckles across his pale nose. “Why is he five minutes away?” Canada looks down at that, a blush appearing across his slightly upturned nose and his ears.

“We talked some,” Canada says, “he apologized a lot, I forgave him, again, and then,” he shrugs, “there wasn't much else to say.” He gives Spain a wry grin. “Usually we chat about the weather and politics, Francis bemoans the fact that my taste buds have been dulled by Arthur, he drags me off shopping and then I leave.” Spain frowns at that, unable to coincide Matthew's story of sadness and distance and Francis's stories of warmth and affection. Canada notices the look and his sad smile becomes sadder. “He keeps trying to get Nouvelle France back,” he says simply, “but that Matthieu is gone and all there is is me.” He shakes his head, setting down his book and pulling his knees up. “No one has wanted _me_ in a very long time.”

Spain, who has frowned more today than he does usually in a month is unable to stop the warring feelings of pity and guilt and something he is steadfastly ignoring. “Osito,” he says, low and warm, “that is not true.” Canada refuses to look up at him and Spain closed his eyes, trying to say what he means, “I,” he stops and Canada looked up, eyes wide. “I want you.” 

xXxXx

The rain comes down in sheets, harder and faster than Spain can remember, not his usual lazy raindrops. The sky is almost black with the clouds, roiling and churning angrily in the sky and Spain sighs, tapping the ash from the end of his cigarette out the open window.

Canada had bolted the minute those words had left his mouth, gone from the house and God only knows where before Spain could so much as reach out to grab him. Spain now realizes just how _good_ Canada is at disappearing.

“You're mad at me are you not?” Spain asks the boiling sky. “I have scared your tortuga and as revenge you are going to flood my gardens.” Canada had run off almost an hour ago, and Spain wonders if maybe he'd called Francis to come get him. Maybe Canada is more comfortable playing a dead colony than being himself.

The thought is not particularly welcome.

“She's not really vengeful you know,” comes a quiet voice and Spain whirls around, taking in the sight of Canada dripping wet all over his floors, arms crossed protectively, hair plastered to his face and eye glasses fogged. He looks beautiful.

“Maybe not,” Spain agrees, flicking his cigarette out the window without turning around. The two continue to stare until Spain notices that Canada is shivering. “Osito,” he says, stepping forward, only for Canada to step back.

“What does that mean?” he asks, voice soft but firm. Spain smiles at that, wondering why that's so important to Canada, but answers him anyway.

“Little bear,” he supplies and Canada's eyes widened, shock painting his pale features.

“Oh,” Canada says and this time Spain is able to reach him and pull him to the bathroom, ushering him over the edge of the tub and pulling several towels from the linen closet across from the sink. “I thought,” Canada swallows painfully, a wetness Spain didn't think was rain filling his eyes. “I thought it was sort of like when Arthur calls me duck because he can't remember my name or calls me a chit because he thinks I'm Alfred or, or when Francis calls me his bijoux which is what he called me before,” he swallows again, almost convulsively, “but, but it's not, is it?”

Spain hands him the towels, smiling as he does so and shaking his head. “Of course not,” he says softly, “who else do I have to call osito?” Canada seems to consider this, but can't come up with anyone who would fit the name and so he just stands there, towels in hand until Spain steps up and took them back, perching them on the sink. “Come now,” he says softly, tugging off the others drenched shirt, “we must get you warm, sí?” Canada nodded, lifting his arms, still in a daze and Spain shakes his head, quickly stripping off the wet clothing, leaving him in his drench socks and boxers. “You can deal with those,” he says firmly, “I will make soup.”

As it turns out, he has no homemade soup stock, and so is forced to use the boxed chicken stock he picked up for emergencies. Naturally, Spain can't help but feel this reflects poorly on him somehow but he devoted his time to chopping and sautéing the onions and garlic as needed. At some point, maybe ten minutes after he'd started and everything is finally in the pot, Spain hears Canada shuffle in, sliding into the chair he seems to have claimed as his own.

“Smells good,” the blond nation says softly, and Spain smiles brightly, launching into a lecture on how to properly prepare sopa tostada de Castilla-La Mancha, even if it is a simple dish. Canada, for all that he still looks very much like a man heading for the firing squad, listens, eyes never straying from Spain's back. Once the instructions are done a brief silence settles over the two as Canada tries to get his courage up. “You,” Canada stops and took a deep breath and Spain finally turned around, though Canada's head is so bowed his nose is almost touching the table and he has no chance of spotting the older man. “You're mad at me aren't you.” 

Spain blinks at him, eyebrows furrowed, head cocked.”Osito,” he says, sounding bemused, “why would I be mad at you?” Canada looks at him sadly, fidgeting with his pant leg.

“I ran off and probably mad you worry and then got your floor wet.”

Spain laughs at that, shaking his head and turning briefly to stir the pot. “No no,” he says firmly, “I was worried, yes, but not too much, I did not think my weather would cause you too much grief, and I do not care that you dripped on my floor, that is easy to fix.” The two stand in silence for a while, Spain returning to his soup, listening to Canada's soft breathing behind him.

“I um, that is about earlier I just,” Canada starts then stops, biting his lip. Spain once again turns to look at him, immediately understanding the look on his pale face.

“Canada,” he says gently, “you do not need to force yourself to feel the same way,” he assures the other, though Canada looks away from him, studying his knees. “Feelings cannot be forced osito.”

Canada stays silent at that, face now buried in his knees and Spain sighs, turning off his oven and moving the soup off the heat. “I know,” the blond says finally, “and I'm not, I don't want, well I do but, but you see I,” he stopped himself, Spain struggling to suppress a smile at the way he trips over his words. “I like you too Spain.”

Before the blond is able to continue stuttering and embarrassing himself Spain swoops down, pressing a gentle kiss to Canada's bitten lips, fingers of one hand resting on the northern country's knee, the other tangling in soft blond hair. Canada manages a squeaking noise, but doesn't pull away, instead his hands fluttering nervously, unsure of what to do.

Without deepening the kiss Spain pulls away, smile growing even more as he noted the dazed look in violet eyes and the red blush on his pale cheeks. “I am glad,” he tells the other nation, white teeth gleaming and green eyes sparkling. 

Canada just nods, obviously out of it. Chuckling happily Spain returns to the stove, carefully placing his baguette pieces in their bowls, sprinkling his grated cheese on as he does so and making sure the broiler is neither too low nor too high.

Pouring himself a glass of water, wine could wait for supper, he turned around, sipping as he noted the fact that is Canada no longer looking shocked but rather contemplative. “Osito?” he coos, “what is on you mind?”

“Hmm?” Canada blinks, shaking his head a bit to clear the thoughts in it. “Oh, I was just wondering, did you and Mig- er, Cuba get along?”

“Uh, no,” Spain says, confusion obvious on his face, “I cannot truly say we ever did.”

“Shame,” Canada says sagely, a sudden glimmer in his eyes, “you could really give him some pointers.”

“Poi-nters?” Spain questions, sounding out the word. “Osito I do no-”

“Kissing,” Canada tells him, “you're much better.”

Spain just blinkes. 

xXxXx 

Waking up the next morning Spain rolls over into the sunlight which fell just short of him and smiles to himself. Laying there for a few more moments he smells something drifting from the kitchen. Pulling himself out of bed is pesky, sometimes lounging is very comforting, but his curiosity, as always, got the best of him in the end.

Canada is cooking. What exactly he's making Spain wasn't sure, though it appears to contain peaches, and he watches the other standing in front of the stove, occasionally flipping whatever he was making. Finally he approaches, peering over the pale shoulder.

“¿Creps?” he guesses, and Canada hums slightly.

“Pas exactement,” he murmurs and Spain grins.

“I have not heard you speak in French before osito,” he says easily, “I do not think it is as bad as Francis claims.”

“Ben,” the other says, “he's just picky, even Arthur doesn't really care how you pronounce something,” he pauses, considering it, “unless you're Al.”

Spain laughs at that and Canada blushes at the welcoming sound, moving his first batch of finished pancakes onto a waiting plate. “You're all very close, no? Spain asked, “even Lovi doesn't call me by my name,” he chuckled, “but with him the term bastard verges on a term of endearment so I do not mind.” Canada smiles weakly at that, pouring four more pancakes.

“Alfred and I,” he struggled, “we are close, but that's not always a good thing. As for Arthur, when he can remember who I am he's wonderful.” Spain can tell Canada doesn't wish to speak any further so he switches topics.

“We did a lot of gardening yesterday,” Spain says happily, “how about today we drive down to San Sebastián for a few days, I will show you around, there is much to see.”

“That'd be nice,” Canada says in a way that clearly precedes a refusal, “but I need to be in Biarritz for my flight by six.”

Spain's smile doesn't falter, and instead he shrugs, still hovering just over Canada. “Ah, qué pena,” he says softly, “well I will drive you,” he says simply, “we can eat now?” he asks brightly and Canada giggles, nodding.

“Go ahead,” he says softly, “this batch is almost done.” Spain gives him a peck on the cheek at that, smiling wider and sillier than ever at the blush he causes.

Silently he goes about setting the table as Canada turns off the burner and places the plate of pancakes on the table. Canada shifts nervously as Spain serves himself, obviously waiting for feedback and Spain is happy to give it.

“It is very good osito,” he assures the other, “do you usually put peaches in them?” Canada shakes his head, finally serving himself.

“Oh no,”he says easily, “sometimes they're plain, sometimes made with chocolate chips, or blueberries, or buttermilk pancakes or banana or banana chocolate chip,” he paused, thinking, “there are a lot of pancake types.” He says finally and Spain chuckles.

“Well I quite enjoy these,” he tells the northern nation. Canada smiles at him, violet eyes bright.

“They'd be better with maple syrup,” the other says, “but these are pretty good if I do say so myself.” He blushes as he speaks, obviously uncomfortable complimenting himself and Spain finishes his two pancakes off, getting up to pour himself some coffee.

“Then I will have to try some maple syrup next time,” he says easily, and Canada gives him a wide eyed look.

“Next time?” he queries and Spain nods sagely.

“But of course osito,” he tells the other, “surely you did not mean to get rid of me?” Canada frantically shakes his head at that and Spain chuckles, setting down his mug on the table and leaning down, gently grabbing Canada's jaw. “Bien,” he murmures, brushing his lips against the others, “I did not plan on going anywhere,” he says softly.

Canada blushes more, looking pleased. Spain lets him go, standing and grabbing up his coffee. “Should we go outside, enjoy the morning?” Canada nods, finishing his breakfast and standing, following Spain outside.

They sit on the patio as the sun comes up sleepily, Canada pressing into Spain's side comfortably. “So,” the Mediterranean nation says, “what else does maple syrup go with?” he asks, and Canada gives him a sly look.

“Everything,” he says simply and Spain chuckls.

“Then I will definitely have to try it next time we meet,” he says, eyeing the other.

“Is that a promise?” Canada asks, violet eyes bright.

Spain nods, looking out at the sunrise. “Sí,” he says, “and I do not break my promises.”


End file.
